Frost Moon by Anthony Francis Page B

Growing up, Jinx had always had the best vision of any of my childhood friends; now she could see little more than a murky blur. It was painful watching her rock her head back and forth, trying to eke some sense of the figures through the ruin of her eyes. Finally she put the flash down on the table, drummed her fingers, and nodded.
    “It will take me a day or so to ‘look’ them over,” she said.
    “I figured,” I said, pulling out a USB key. “I have some files if you want the originals—TIFF, JPEG, PNG, and for the clock, even something called SVG—”
    “Scalable Vector Graphics,” she said, suddenly breathless, upraising a gloved hand into which I dropped the key. “Excellent. That will save me a step.”
    “I don’t have the other one. We’re trying to get a picture now—”
    “Do you know the general kind of inking it’s going to be?”
    “It’s…” I stopped, deciding how much to tell her. This was police business, nasty stuff, and I knew how she felt about the police—heck, I felt the same way. But this was Jinx, after all. What could I hide from her? “I’m not inking it. Someone ripped a tattoo off one of Richard Sumner’s clients.”
    “A copyright infringement case?” she said, shocked. “Dakota—”
    “No,” I said, very flatly.
    Jinx’s face drained. “Oh, Dakota,” she said, horrified. “You mean literally. Oh, Dakota! What have you gotten yourself into? How did you ever come across such a thing—”
    “Andre Rand,” I said. “He wanted to warn me. Somebody’s targeting people with magical tattoos.” Her hands went to her mouth. “I’m, uh, trying to help them—”
    “Well, duh,” she said. “Quit dancing around it, I can smell your reluctance from here.”
    I didn’t say anything. I was a bit embarrassed. Jinx hated the police, for reasons she never disclosed. In fact she’d nearly cut me out when she found out my dad was a cop, and even now she barely tolerated him—though on that score I knew how she felt.
    “Well,” I said, “It’s just, I didn’t think you’d like me working with them—”
    “‘Them,’” she said. “Say it. ‘The police’—and ‘the Feds,’ I’ll bet. You’re helping the police, and you’re worried about what I’ll think.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “Well, stop worrying, Dakota.” She sat up straighter. “Someone may be stalking you, and has already killed somebody else. Of course you’re helping the police. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I know you better than to think you’d engage in a modern witch hunt.”
    I let out a breath, relieved. “So, if we could get them to release the pics, you’ll help?”
    “Dakota,” she said reprovingly. “Oh Dakota. Of course. Anything for you.”
    Her phone beeped, and Jinx sighed. “I have class,” she said primly, closing her little laptop, slipping it and the spiral-bound Braille book into a brown leather satchel, and then withdrawing a spirit cane.
    “I know,” I replied.
    “Walk me to the bus stop?” Jinx said, standing, all black ruffles and white lace, unfolding the springloaded white cane to its six foot length sharply, tik-tik-tik-tik-CRACK.
    “Certainly,” I said, stepping to the door and opening it. She walked forward towards my voice, sweeping the cane back and forth, click-clack , acutely aware of her effect on the boys at the side table as she swept past them. She took my extended arm naturally as she stepped through the door, and we walked out into the warm Atlanta sun. “Just like old times.”
    “More than you know,” she said. “I think I can evaluate the clockwork flash, but as for the control charm… we’ll want to call in an were-expert.”
    “Let me guess,” I said. “Not a wereologist, but an actual were.”
    “Right, first time,” Jinx said. “Goes by ‘the Marquis.’ We’re texting all the time, but he’s a real Edgeworlder. No email, no fixed address—you’ll have to take the flash to him physically, in person, at the